


cat lovers

by jdphoenix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cats, Crack, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28600884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: It is a fact that cats do what they want and their humans just have to deal. Even if those humans are wizards.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	cat lovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely SafelyCapricious to celebrate both the holidays and her birthday - both of which I have managed to miss. (Shame! Shame upon JD!) I hope you enjoy, hon. And that you can forgive me for this next part...
> 
> As this is a gift, I had no plans when it began for it to be a chapter fic. But unfortunately the plot kinda went in that direction. So while I'm posting this as the first of ? chapters, I have _no idea_ when or if it will be updated. Personally I think it's satisfying as a cracky little oneshot but I recognize that this acts as a set-up for more and HP fandom in general doesn't really do those kind of oneshots. So I'm gonna try, but please bear with me.

From the next room, the tea kettle whistles, nearly lost beneath the sound of Luna’s impression of a bull elephant. Hermione, having been listening for just the thing, jumps up so suddenly it startles Luna and earns a hiss from Crookshanks.

“Oh! I’m keeping you-” Luna begins.

“No no! Please go on.” Hermione chuckles softly. “This flat is so tight, I’ll be able to hear you quite well from the kitchen. Please?”

“All right,” Luna says and resumes her recounting of her last safari, seeking out … something. Hermione isn’t really sure what, but she’s quite certain it was “endangered.” Which, coming from Luna, means entirely mythical.

Not that she’d admit it but she only listens with one ear to Luna’s tales. If she were to use both, she would actually absorb whatever nonsense Luna’s on about and she might find herself saying something she oughtn’t. Naturally Luna would never hold an out of line comment against her, but that would only make things _worse_. Hermione would feel so guilty she would be forced to apologize—for her completely factual statement, no less—and Luna would only blink at her with those wide eyes and say there was nothing to apologize for, which would only make her feel _more_ guilty.

So when Luna shifts suddenly away from her recitation of events to a more timely commentary, Hermione only answers with the same meaningless notes of agreement she’s been using all afternoon. It’s not until she returns with her tray of tea and biscuits—the biscuits being Luna’s contribution; Hermione certainly didn’t bake them herself, as she doesn’t want to poison either of them—that she realizes the change in topic of conversation.

“She’s very sweet,” Luna says.

Hermione scowls at the snow white cat resting across Luna’s lap. “Yes. With some people.”

Meaning people who aren’t Hermione. The cat’s been hiding beneath furniture almost since the day she accompanied Crookshanks home, refusing to come out no matter how Hermione teases and cajoles and begs. She does eat and use her box, but she must only do so when Hermione is asleep—and so covertly that even as light a sleeper as she is, Hermione never wakes at the sound.

“How did you come by her?”

Hermione sets the tray on her coffee table before waving her wand in a bit of voiceless magic to charm it and everything on it so that only a human can disturb it. It won’t work for long against a cat’s concentrated effort—especially not a magical one’s—but as Hermione doesn’t know the new cat’s nature well enough to trust her around her china; she’d rather be safe than sorry.

“Crookshanks brought her home,” she sighs, falling into her own seat. It’s quite bare of cats, with Crookshanks even sitting across the room at Luna’s feet, and Hermione feels somewhat lonely.

“Really?” Luna’s usually melodic voice rises.

Hermione shrugs a shoulder. “He found himself a girlfriend. It’s not so strange.”

“It is when she’s a purebred yagyu. And in this part of the world, too.”

“A what?”

“A yagyu. It’s a breed of kneazle. More common in the northern hemisphere. Most kneazles are like Crookshanks here—striped or even spotted. Yagyu have no markings at all.” While she explains, the cat nuzzles up into her hand as if proud to be recognized finally.

The motion allows Hermione her first ever glimpse of the cat’s neck—and the thin collar so pale it’s nearly invisible against her fur.

“I haven’t even had the chance to look at her,” Hermione says, nodding to the collar. “She must belong to someone.”

Luna notes it and the hand stroking the cat’s back stills, resting along her ribcage. Both she and Hermione reach for the collar—and the charm on it that will alert her owner to her whereabouts—but before either can reach it, Crookshanks hisses. He leaps up, nearly as high as Hermione’s head, and the shock is enough to allow his friend to escape back to her hiding places, this time with Crookshanks following.

“Damn.”

The good news is that, after that, Hermione and Luna spend most of the afternoon trying to coax the little escape artist out, thus sparing Hermione from more ridiculous tales.

The bad news is that they’re entirely unsuccessful.

“You could always _accio_ her,” Luna suggests, but it’s clear her heart isn’t truly in it. Summoning a cat is a grave offense and rarely forgiven except in the most dire of circumstances—and sometimes not even then.

“No, she’ll come out eventually.” Hermione hopes.

The two say their goodbyes—with Hermione insisting, despite her discomfort with the whole thing, that Luna return after her search of the Great Victoria Desert for … whatever it is she’s looking for to spend at least one more night before returning home—and Hermione is left with her all-too-quiet house and her two reclusive cats.

It makes for a dull evening that can’t even be brightened up by a bit of work on Hermione’s revision of _Hogwarts: A History_. By eight she’s feeling lethargic and, though she tells herself she’s preparing for bed only so she can read without worrying about getting out up again later, she never even reaches for her nightstand except to lay her wand on it.

Five hours later, just past one in the morning, according to the Muggle clock next to her wand, Hermione is awakened by something small wriggling over her wrist to brush her cheek.

“Crooks, ’s too early,” she whines and makes to push him away, only to discover that where she expects the bulk of him to be, there’s nothing at all.

She turns her head away from the probing nose while her free hand feels about on her mattress, searching for the rest of her cat. Her fingers nudge something soft, with fur far too short to be her long-haired beast. There comes a faint whimper, overpowered by a growl, and the soft, furry little something is dropped onto the back of her hand.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Hermione says, suddenly full awake. Her wand sparks to life and in its glow she sees the backend of the yagyu slipping around her cracked doorway, leaving behind not two, but _five_ kittens all nestled close to Hermione.

Before she can get past the shock, Crookshanks appears, a kitten of his own in his mouth.

“Oh, you have been _busy_ , haven’t you?” she says. Crookshanks only cocks an ear at her cross words and deposits the kitten beside his—or her, Hermione really can’t tell—brethren.

Within minutes she finds herself sitting up in bed with eight kittens cradled in her lap. Crookshanks takes a post at the foot of her bed, while his mate curls herself up around her brood as if she’s never before disdained Hermione’s lap.

“I see,” Hermione says, struggling to hold onto her anger in the face of eight squirming, orange and white kittens and their purring mother, “now that you need child support, you come calling.”

She helps the kittens find their way to their mother’s breast and, since she’s in the area, flicks the charm on the cat’s collar. The bell makes no noise, but sends off a shower of sparks. A few fall across the suckling kittens, but most fly out the window in search of their master.

“I suppose we’ll have a very relieved visitor to breakfast in the morning.” And Hermione doubts very much she’ll be able to so much as cook toast after this night—she hasn’t even _looked_ for where the deed was done yet; that’ll be a fun chore for later. Perhaps she can run to one of the shops down the lane … but that runs her the risk of missing the cat’s owner, not to mention it requires a level of dexterity sure to be beyond her.

No sooner has she spoken, however, than a pop sounds and she discovers a robed—in the Muggle variety—Malfoy standing beside her bed.

“ _Where_ have you been?!” he thunders.

Be it the outburst or the sudden arrival, Crookshanks reacts with all the violence of a father whose newborns have been threatened.

Malfoy’s furious face is lost beneath a ball of hissing, scratching ginger fur that throws him back into her dresser. He proceeds to trip over her desk chair—left out as Crookshanks likes to use it as a bed when he finds Hermione too disruptful a bedmate—and his wild flailing for purchase knocks open her door so that he lands face-first in the hall.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione yells. The only thing keeping her from leaping to his aid is the kittens.

He darts under the bed and out the other side, leaping to land at her hip and hiss at Malfoy from a place of safety. Hermione strokes his back a time or two, searching for injury, but he remains taut as a bowstring as he stands guard over his family.

A string of curses accompany Malfoy’s rise from the floor. Understandably disoriented, it takes him a moment to make sense of the dark hallway and turn towards the lighted room. When he does, his face is red—from anger and scratches both—and his shock is visible.

“Granger?” he demands. He stalks swiftly forward, drawing up short at the sound of Crookshanks’ hiss.

Or she thinks it is, at first. The way he averts his eyes clues her in that she’s wearing a simple Muggle camisole, one that, from his current angle, provides him an impressive view.

She hastily _accios_ a shawl from her closet and wraps it around herself. In the time that takes, he’s noticed the clowder in her lap and, as she’s busy making herself presentable, his outrage is faster than hers.

“ _Halley!_ What have you _done_?”

“Halley?” Hermione echoes. The white cat again lifts her head in that proud way. The name certainly doesn’t fit, but the attitude does. She doesn’t know why she didn’t guess before it was Malfoy’s cat.

“I see your beast has been forcing himself on my angel,” he growls.

“‘Forcing him-’” Hermione snaps her mouth shut. _Not_ for Malfoy’s sake, but for the kittens. They’re young and new and do not need anymore yelling in their vicinity. She takes a deep breath and, with as much calm as she is able to muster, says, “Why don’t you go out into the living room—or better yet, search the flat for where _your_ yagyu birthed _her_ kittens in my home—and I’ll be out so we can discuss this _civilly_ in a moment, all right?”

Malfoy wants to argue—Hermione spent enough years in Gryffindor tower to see a fight brewing behind someone’s eyes—but he snaps a curt nod and turns on his heel, closing the door sharply, though quietly, behind him.

Once he’s gone, Hermione makes another attempt at petting Crookshanks, but he’s still far too tense. Halley, however, bends her head in a clear invitation.

“Why did it have to be her?” Hermione asks while she scratches behind the cat’s ears. “Of all the kneazles—of all the _cats—_ in the world, why a _Malfoy_?”

Crookshanks’ only answer is to knuzzle his mate.

+++++

Given her current situation, it takes much more than a moment for Hermione to free herself from her bed. After that, she takes her sweet time finding an outfit that says both _I am proud of my Muggle heritage_ and _I don’t care what you think_. By the time she emerges in jeans and a t-shirt promoting the fast food chain owned by Harry’s cousin—the screaming chicken makes both her statements quite well, she thinks—it’s nearly three in the morning.

She finds Malfoy sitting on her sofa, arms splayed along the back, one leg bent over the opposite knee, and somehow looking regal in his pyjamas and robe. He’s healed his own wounds, she notes.

“I made tea,” he says. “I thought it might calm both our nerves.”

“Thank you?” she says.

“I also disappeared the mess.”

Hermione sits heavily opposite him, not sure how to take such … kindnesses.

The moments stretch out between them, broken by his raised eyebrow. “I didn’t poison it.”

“The thought hadn’t even occurred to me-” (though it should have) “I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s not often I’m woken up in the middle of the night by a cat—who I didn’t even know was expecting, by the way—insisting I help care for its kittens.” She takes a sip of the tea. If it’s one of her blends, her tastebuds are too tired to recognize it, but it’s quite soothing and that’s all she cares for right now. “I half expected to find you asleep out here.”

He shrugs, the motion too practiced to appear truly careless. “I’m something of a night owl. I find it easier to work then.”

She doesn’t comment that someone who planned on being up would hardly be wearing his nightclothes. Instead she says, “I suppose your nerves would keep you up.”

His eyes fix on her with an impotent fury she remembers well from their school days. “What is that supposed to mean, Granger?”

“Only that if Crookshanks had been missing for the better part of a week, I’d be beside myself.”

That placates him, but only for as long as it takes the both of them to realize what she’s just said.

“The kittens-” he starts.

“Where are you sleeping—or not sleeping—exactly?”

He eyes her carefully before rattling off an address on the next street. “Why? Where are we now?”

She gives him her own address.

“Bloody hell.”

Hermione can’t help but agree. For who knows how long—she’s guessing Crookshanks and Halley would have some idea—they’ve been living a stone’s throw from one another.

“What are you doing in _Australia_?” Of all the people she might have thought to see again after moving halfway across the world, Malfoy was not one of them.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but wizarding England isn’t too fond of my family these days. I’ve found it easier to make a go of things outside the country.”

She supposes that makes sense. And it’s no less than he deserves—but did he have to make a go of things _here_?

“What about you?” he asks. “I wouldn’t have thought the motherland would let you go under any circumstances.”

Hermione has no answer for that—or she _does_ , but the truth is hardly something she likes to share. Her awkward search for a lie lasts long enough for him to notice.

“Granger?” He sounds so … _kind_. He keeps doing that. It’s quite distressing.

“My parents,” she says and has only the shock of his odd behavior to blame. “They live here. Ever since—summer following our sixth year.”

She stirs her tea, praying he won’t ask-

“He had us looking for them,” Malfoy says softly. “Not just them, of course. But anyone with any talent for divination was set to scrying for the loved ones of any of Potter’s allies.”

He doesn’t add that there are only two reasons such scrying wouldn’t have worked: incredibly strong magic guarding the object of the search—or an object that no longer existed, at least as it was being sought. As Hermione obviously wasn’t with her parents at the time to confuse or rebuff the searches, there are few other alternatives.

“What I mean to say,” he says in a belabored sort of way, “is that whatever you did to protect them, it was justified.”

She hums in response, unable to come up with anything better to say.

“But we are here about the cats,” he says swiftly, in the manner of someone hoping to bypass some unpleasantness. Hermione is only too happy to let him. “And the kittens,” he adds with some displeasure.

“I believe tradition has it they’re yours,” she says. “The father usually only gets one as, erm, payment.”

“Muggle tradition, perhaps,” he says with all the disdain of his youth. It’s oddly comforting after all his strangeness tonight. “Kneazles mate for life.” He sighs. “I’ll have to owl Astoria tomorrow. Tell her her Ares will have to find another queen.”

Hermione shrugs. “So I won’t have to worry about Crookshanks bringing home anymore surprises; I fail to see the problem, Malfoy.”

Somehow, with them sitting on even footing, he manages to look down his nose at her. “Of course you do. The kneazles are _in love_ , Granger. Our magical familiars have formed an irrevocable, unbreakable bond—and seen fit to further cement it with _offspring_. They will not be separated.”

“You’re not serious.” Perhaps they’ll be a bit defensive of the kittens until they’re old enough to be weaned, but they’re sure to grow tired of one another eventually. Or, more likely, Malfoy’s proud queen will grow tired of her peasant tom.

“One of us is going to have to take the lot of them. Obviously that will be me, as I have the funds to keep Halley in the lifestyle to which she is accustomed.”

“Now see here!” Hermione finds herself suddenly on her feet. “I will not let you _steal my cat_ , Malfoy. And besides, Crookshanks hates you. He always has.” She flops back into her seat, crossing her arms over her chest and looking, she knows, like a petulant child. “It really must be love,” she mutters to herself, “for him to have gotten past the Malfoy smell on her.”

Malfoy ignores the barb. Yet another thing that is unlike him. At school he would have fired back with one of his own—something about Muggle’s lacking basic hygiene and Crookshanks having lost his sense of smell to it long ago.

“We’ll just have to find another way,” she says. Perhaps a containment charm? Magically confining a cat is as bad as summoning it, but what else can they do?

“There _is_ no other way,” he says, annoyingly calm. “Not unless we want to move in together.”

He says it as if it’s the most absurd thing in the world—because it _is_ the most absurd thing in the world. Nothing could be madder.

But it only takes a moment for their eyes to meet as they both realize the terrible truth.


End file.
